Therapy started last week and it wasn’t as scary as I thought it would be.  Right off the bat, I wanted to clear any notion of bipolar because I truly don’t believe my regular doctor is equipped to call a diagnosis like that based on a stupid questionnaire written by a drug company and the therapist agreed immediately.  I was expecting a fight on that one but she reviewed my paperwork and told me that PTSD (Post Traumatic Stress Disorder) often presents as bipolar when memories surface over time.  Then she had me start at the beginning.  My earliest memories.

As I sat and recalled my childhood, I realized (with her probing) that I had definitely (and conveniently) forgotten much of the bad parts of being my mother’s daughter.  Some of the stuff I was recalling was only because there were things my mother or other family members had told me as a kid and some of the stuff I recalled was a result of piecing together scenarios that I only knew because I’d seen a picture and someone had told me.   There were things she asked me about that my mind is so fuzzy on, I had to tell her I didn’t know if some of my memories were real or a fabrication of my mother’s imagination — she tends to lie and embellish and there are things she told me that I later found out to be untrue OR other family members won’t admit/don’t know themselves.  I may never know.

For what felt like 15 minutes (it was an hour), we talked, her asking a few questions about the minefield I was walking in, me tiptoeing around the Things I Wasn’t Ready To Say.  I was surprised at how much I did tell her but she was incredibly easy to talk to and I liked her right away.  I’m grateful for that.

My next appointment isn’t for another couple of weeks but I did decide to start a private journal, if only to tell my story to myself and try and remember more.  Even though I want to get it out on paper, I’m terrified to unlock some of the parts I’ve held down for so long.